Satyr solus . [ Sat: ]
Small is the Bee; but yet with his small sting
Does greater mischiefe, then a greater thing.
But what of all things can be lesse then Love,
That through so narrow passages can pierce,
And in so narrow roome lye hid? sometime
Under the shaddow of an eye-lids fault,
Now in the small curle of a shining tresse,
Now in the little pitts which forme sweet smiles
In an inamo'ring cheeke; yet makes so deepe,
So deadly and immedicable wounds.
Ay me my brest is all one bleeding wound;
A thousand armed darts alas are lodg'd
By that fell tyrant Love in Silvia's eyes;
Cruell Love, cruell Silvia, savadger
Then the wilde desarts; O how well thy name
Sutes with thy nature (Silvan as thou art)
The woods under their green roofes hide the Snake,
The Beare, the Lyon; and thou in thy brest
Hydest disdaine, hate, and impietie,
More balefull then the Lion, Beare, or Snake;
For they will some way be reclaim'de; thou neither
With prayers or gifts; Alas when I present thee
Fresh floures, thou frowardly refusest them;
Perhaps because th'hast in thy lovely face,
Fairer then those; Alas when I present thee
Faire Apples, thou do'st scornfully reject them;
Perhaps because thy bosome beares a paire
Fairer then those; Ay mee when I present thee
Sweet honey, thou disdainfully deny'st it,
Perhaps because thy lips breathe sweeter honey
Then the Bee makes; but if my poverty
Can give thee nought that thou hast not more faire,
And lovely in thy selfe, my selfe I give thee;
But thou unjust scorn'st, and abhorr'st the gift.
Yet I'me not so fowle, to be so dispiz'de,
If well I mark'd my selfe, when th' other day
I view'd my shadowe in the watry mayne,
When the winde blew not, and the sea lay still.
The manly tincture of my sanguine brow,
These muscied armes, and shoulders large enough;
This hairy brest of mine, and hory thyes
Proclaime my able force, and manlyhood;
Make triall of mee if thou doubt'st of it.
What wilt thou do with these same tenderlings,
On whose bare cheeke the young downe scarsely springs?
With what an art they place their haire in order?
Women in shew, and women in their strength.
Tell me, who wilt thou have to follow thee
O're the bald hills, and through the leavy woods,
And fight for thee with Beare, and armed Bore?
No no, my shape's not it thou hat'st mee for,
But 'tis my poverty thou dost abhorre.
Ah that poore Cottages will follow still
Great Townes example in what ere is ill;
This may be truely call'd the Golden age,
For gould alone prevailes, gould only raynes.
O thou (who ere thou wert) that first did teach
To sell love thus, accursed be thy dust.
And thy colde buried bones; nor ever may
Shepherd or Nimphe say to them, rest in peace;
But be they washt with raines, and tost with windes,
And may the passers by, and all the rout
Of beasts with fowle feet spurne them all about.
Base mercinary love, thou hast deflour'd
Loves noblenesse; and turn'd his happy joyes
Into such bitternesse, and sharpe annoyes.
Love to be slave to golde? O miracle
More odious, and abominable farre
Then the large earth produces, or the Mayne.
But why alas, why do I vexe my selfe
Thus all in vaine? no, let each creature use
Those armes that Nature for his ayde hath giv'n him,
The Hart his speede, the Lyon his strong pawe,
The foaming Bore his tuske; the womans armes
And powre lye in her beauty', and gracefull shape;
I, since my strength is the best helpe I have,
And am by nature fit for deedes of force,
Will for reward of all my love mispent,
Force this proud cruell to my owne content.
And by so much as I can understand,
(As yon Goteherd that hath observ'd her wayes
Hath lately tolde me) she doth oft repaire
To' a water-fount to wash her selfe; the place
He made me knowe, and there I mean to lye
Close in a thickett neere, t' attend her comming,
And as occasion fits, I'le make her myne;
What can she do then, what avayle alas
Can her hands give her, or herleggs to flye
(Poore wretch) from me so forcible, and swift?
Let her a good yeere weepe, and sigh, and rayle,
And put on all the powre her beauty hath;
If once I catch her by the snary curles,
We will not part in hast, till I have bath'd
(For my revenge) my armes in her warme bloud.
Small is the Bee; but yet with his small sting
Does greater mischiefe, then a greater thing.
But what of all things can be lesse then Love,
That through so narrow passages can pierce,
And in so narrow roome lye hid? sometime
Under the shaddow of an eye-lids fault,
Now in the small curle of a shining tresse,
Now in the little pitts which forme sweet smiles
In an inamo'ring cheeke; yet makes so deepe,
So deadly and immedicable wounds.
Ay me my brest is all one bleeding wound;
A thousand armed darts alas are lodg'd
By that fell tyrant Love in Silvia's eyes;
Cruell Love, cruell Silvia, savadger
Then the wilde desarts; O how well thy name
Sutes with thy nature (Silvan as thou art)
The woods under their green roofes hide the Snake,
The Beare, the Lyon; and thou in thy brest
Hydest disdaine, hate, and impietie,
More balefull then the Lion, Beare, or Snake;
For they will some way be reclaim'de; thou neither
With prayers or gifts; Alas when I present thee
Fresh floures, thou frowardly refusest them;
Perhaps because th'hast in thy lovely face,
Fairer then those; Alas when I present thee
Faire Apples, thou do'st scornfully reject them;
Perhaps because thy bosome beares a paire
Fairer then those; Ay mee when I present thee
Sweet honey, thou disdainfully deny'st it,
Perhaps because thy lips breathe sweeter honey
Then the Bee makes; but if my poverty
Can give thee nought that thou hast not more faire,
And lovely in thy selfe, my selfe I give thee;
But thou unjust scorn'st, and abhorr'st the gift.
Yet I'me not so fowle, to be so dispiz'de,
If well I mark'd my selfe, when th' other day
I view'd my shadowe in the watry mayne,
When the winde blew not, and the sea lay still.
The manly tincture of my sanguine brow,
These muscied armes, and shoulders large enough;
This hairy brest of mine, and hory thyes
Proclaime my able force, and manlyhood;
Make triall of mee if thou doubt'st of it.
What wilt thou do with these same tenderlings,
On whose bare cheeke the young downe scarsely springs?
With what an art they place their haire in order?
Women in shew, and women in their strength.
Tell me, who wilt thou have to follow thee
O're the bald hills, and through the leavy woods,
And fight for thee with Beare, and armed Bore?
No no, my shape's not it thou hat'st mee for,
But 'tis my poverty thou dost abhorre.
Ah that poore Cottages will follow still
Great Townes example in what ere is ill;
This may be truely call'd the Golden age,
For gould alone prevailes, gould only raynes.
O thou (who ere thou wert) that first did teach
To sell love thus, accursed be thy dust.
And thy colde buried bones; nor ever may
Shepherd or Nimphe say to them, rest in peace;
But be they washt with raines, and tost with windes,
And may the passers by, and all the rout
Of beasts with fowle feet spurne them all about.
Base mercinary love, thou hast deflour'd
Loves noblenesse; and turn'd his happy joyes
Into such bitternesse, and sharpe annoyes.
Love to be slave to golde? O miracle
More odious, and abominable farre
Then the large earth produces, or the Mayne.
But why alas, why do I vexe my selfe
Thus all in vaine? no, let each creature use
Those armes that Nature for his ayde hath giv'n him,
The Hart his speede, the Lyon his strong pawe,
The foaming Bore his tuske; the womans armes
And powre lye in her beauty', and gracefull shape;
I, since my strength is the best helpe I have,
And am by nature fit for deedes of force,
Will for reward of all my love mispent,
Force this proud cruell to my owne content.
And by so much as I can understand,
(As yon Goteherd that hath observ'd her wayes
Hath lately tolde me) she doth oft repaire
To' a water-fount to wash her selfe; the place
He made me knowe, and there I mean to lye
Close in a thickett neere, t' attend her comming,
And as occasion fits, I'le make her myne;
What can she do then, what avayle alas
Can her hands give her, or herleggs to flye
(Poore wretch) from me so forcible, and swift?
Let her a good yeere weepe, and sigh, and rayle,
And put on all the powre her beauty hath;
If once I catch her by the snary curles,
We will not part in hast, till I have bath'd
(For my revenge) my armes in her warme bloud.